The wind seems to deject the scorching warmth that is hung in the air, the burning breeze of May insinuates the pungent heat, and the tiring heart longs for the sun to repent while the wind aims to change its course. Thus, the Monsoon arrives with a note of unwavering calmness and my mind races wondering how long it will stay this time.
Monsoon carries a happy notion of life for me. The insatiable break from the gruesome summer. The wet streets, the moisture-laden garden, the river sounding alive and roaring waterfalls, the leisure days filled with the smell of fritters coming out of the kitchen; everything seems like the monsoon synonyms the longing heart and the pouring life.
My strongest memory of the monsoon is of childhood when the rain hit our tin roof during the night and when I used to fall asleep to the sound of the rain. The humans back then somehow knew how to appreciate the silence, the moments caused by it. The sound of the rain stirred my heart as I could sense that there is a possibility of the unravelling of the emotions wrapped in life.
The swaying trees in the rainy hues, the water dripping from the leaves, the city drenched in the rain, and the fresh smell of the soil coming from the parched earth, all that says a thousand stories get evoked by the sweep of the monsoon.
Monsoon has a precarious pattern like humans. My utter despair has been the weeks when the monsoon appears like an estranged beloved. After showering the city with pouring abundance, the monsoon suddenly parches itself from us leaving us to the wrath of the avenging sun. When we had just about started to get ourselves cushy of rain, when we were being easy trying to pull the strings of life or losing ourselves in the mirage of rain; there, it seems to depart. What can be more ambiguous than this?
But, if I was complaining of its peekaboo character then there were lives disrupted with the droughts and floods. The lives that can never find the rainy hues romantic anymore and the horror of the monsoon forever sketched in their minds. I wonder whether it is the same monsoon whose thunder once sang the glory of the lovers meeting but now, it makes sure to owe a curse upon itself.
In her essay “A book on the rains that are brimming with emotions and feelings”, the author Rana Safvi explains how monsoon has lured writers for ages to portray it in its different shades but, not everyone could associate the rain with one fixed emotion. She mentions that if ‘Meghadut’ by Kalidasa stands for the “Monsoon of love and longing” the Khuswant Singh’s ‘Train To Pakistan’ set in the same season stands for a “Monsoon of Fear, Suffering, and Horror”. I believe on a greater part, it has much to do with our longing and yearning that Monsoon dwells on and changes the imagery for us.
Despite the flickery colours of the monsoon, I couldn’t agree more with the author when she says- “It is a season to be felt.” I doubt whether I could find the emotions lying submerged when the rain hits us next.